Spots Of Time.

Five.

The scholar shall
write wringing theories,
dilute ink with gold,
foils and folds
in the contradictions
he chooses,
tools to toil
in the juxtapositions, the logic
deferred in the cancellations

The scholar revisits
where he met his lady
down the insipid lanes
of timelessness
he still holds the red thread
betwixt the blue tarpaulins
back to the same retorts
and remarks and loses
his grip when her visage
still holds true to the
same smile she wore
that same wrinkle
her mask bore

surrender!
Surrender!
Twilight hour!

Get back
to the start
nobody remembers
what happened to genesis

Get back
as if time recoiled,
guns, comets and nuclear
wars are blues,
soothing in the glands,
applied alleviation,
appellations are comforts
in the remonstrances

Jasmine still in reins
of the wind
takes Ansteckend
to distant planets
where gods engage
in trading and sketching taints,

where the commoners
rule gods and goddesses
and shape effigies out of them
in the daily worker's world;
where effigies are relegated
to winning cheap labour prizes
when you transgress Ansteckend's.

It is hard,
It is.
Not just amortization
of money.

Not just the bills and life.

But this thing called love.

I mean, have you had your heart broken?

Yeah, you have.

I can tell.

I could even show you
how and why and when.

I know.

I could tell.

Did you falter at the seams,
crying to sleep on nimble nights alone,

knowing you had
your husky heart
into pieces and
those shattered pieces

like of a glass and parts
have flown across wires,

over treetops and transformers,

over city rooftops to
the soothing calm
of the water down
decades below,

where you let them drown,

let them float, soak,

get down to the riverbed,

form a ball itself,

protecting the last remnant
of what you might have left?

You have the key
to that guarded chest,
locked down,

maybe you are waiting
for someone,

and the vacuum
you have left inside

your ribcage is waiting.

Waiting for that chance.

Waiting for that water
splashed down infront
of shops lighted around,

to cool the land,
urging the breezy,

sultry winds to come

and wash over the pain,

come down as rain,

the gut-swallowing pride of yours,

the hurt you have rolled
up on your sleeve,

the hair that you have rolled into a thick tail, only to be let down.

Let down and breathe,

take in forms,

ask for forgiveness,

second chances and to love again.

So have you waited enough?

Have you looked down
that rooftop of yours,
encoding and decoding street

and banner signs, shop lights

that look translucent enough
to be damn aesthetic,

damn that give you

a meaning to the abundant

absurdness you have

piled up over the years.

For that top view of that mushy
hair that glistens and
you'd tell you like his hair,
you like his smile,
you like his voice,
his eyes

but they're not that good than yours.

Have you waited enough?

Or have you given up?

Because I'm telling you,
a heart broken is a casualty

to none but some,
some but not all,

because love exists
not in your time, but theirs.

Do you know why they found the keys to each other's remnants of their broken hearts?

Because they waited.

They waited,
they had given a chance,

had gone through trials and tribulations,
to let them get lost into mazes on Tuesdays again,

just to look through
the lens of the people
they had fallen in love with.

They had waited
and tried their Sunday best
on things left unsaid,
incomplete because

otherwise we are just
two broken halves,
caught up in the vicinity of a sailstorm,

attempts at rejoining,
or trying to get drawn into,

to be a whole,

a complete rational number again.

"If you're the queen of California,
I'm the king of rain."

Worlds like theirs,
hers of the wind,
where as
he is bound to the river
where the fantasical
is the real,
the real is the mirage

One day the riverine
community worker
crept in hers riding the wind

One day he missed her
so much
it rained on both the realms,

Pouring down,
Upwards thrusted,
the droplets exude
the greater expectations

They fell in love
and time frozeup
in an artifice

Maybe time fell in love as well.

A flux in the stream
to these conjured worlds,
I gaze into the pond as well,
I fail when I realise
dreams are dwindled by the dawns.